Love Story
by Je Veux Vivre
Summary: What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Beyoncé and Britney. And dancing. And me. Brittana AU. Based on Erich Segal's Love Story. Trigger warnings: Character death, mention of terminal illness, angst in later chapters. Rated T for now, but may change to M later on.
1. I

**Trigger warnings; Character death, mention of terminal illness in later chapters, angst in later chapters. Based on Erich Segal's Love Story.**

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><p><em>What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died? <em>

_That she was beautiful. And brilliant._

That she loved Beyoncé and Britney. And dancing.

_And me._

Once, when she listed those things in that exact order, I asked her, "What's the order?"

She grinned, and replied. "Alphabetical."

_At the time I smiled too._

But it bothered me. It still does. There's a niggling feeling at the back of my mind that I was last on her list, be that alphabetical, in order of preference or vice versa. I wanted to be her first for everything, first to kiss, first to smile at in the morning when her breath was sour but her eyes were shining. First to call when she was crying so hard that she could barely see whose number she was calling.

Either way, I never came first on that list. She'd repeat it in that precise order, that infuriatingly beautiful, smug grin plastered on her face.

But I wanted to be first—no, I needed to be first. _Family heritage, don't you know?_

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><p>It was senior year. For some trivial reason, I'd gotten into the habit of using the Julliard Cafe. Not just because the girls were better looking, although I admit I liked to look. It was quiet, the coffee was better, nobody knew me (and thus nobody bothered me), and there were none of those annoying jocks who kept asking me on dates, and calling me a tease when I 'politely' turned them down. As if they had even a third of a chance.<p>

I shuffled (who fucking struts in a coffeehouse?) over to the counter. There were two people working at the desk; one a muscled, obviously attractive Asian guy, the other a leggy blonde girl. I opted for legs.

"A small espresso, please."

_She shot a glance up at me._

"Don't you have your own coffeehouse, Preppie?" she asked, a smirk on her face.

I rolled my eyes.

"Listen, NYU is allowed to use Julliard's café. There's no fucking rule against that."

_"__Wouldja please watch your profanity, Preppie?"_ she retorted, a twinkle in her eyes.

I bit back a smile.

"Stop calling me that, blondie. You don't even know if I went to prep school, Jesus Christ."

She surveyed me for a moment.

_"__You look stupid and rich," _she said, winking playfully at me.

I sighed half heartedly.

"You're wrong." I argued. "I'm actually smart and poor."

She gave a snort, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards. She was leaning closer now, so close I could count every sun-kissed freckle dusted on her face. 27, I noted.

_"__Oh no, Preppie. I'm smart and poor."_

She stared right at me. Her eyes were like sapphires, ocean blue and focused on my lips. I wetted them nervously. Okay, maybe I looked rich, but I wasn't about to let some stranger—_even one with pretty eyes_—call me dumb.

"What the fuck makes you so intelligent, huh?" I asked in mock offense, my left hand moving to fiddle a dark lock of hair. She giggled in response.

_"__I wouldn't go for coffee with you," she answered._

_"__Listen—I wouldn't ask you."_

_"__That," she replied "is what makes you stupid."_

Let me explain why I took her out in the end. That wasn't my intention at all in the beginning, honest to God. I got my coffee, walked to the most secluded corner of the room, sat down and opened the book I was supposed to be reading, under the pretence of studying. Honestly, I just wanted some fucking peace and quiet for a change. I could see her glancing at me repeatedly, a half smile on her face as she moved fluidly from one coffee machine to the other. Once, she caught my eye, and flashed a bright smile in my direction. I shook my head a little, and found myself smiling back.

10 minutes later, I looked up from my book (yes, I was actually studying now) and found myself face to face with those cat like eyes.

"Hi," she breathed, her eyes studying mine intently.

"H-hey," I replied. Wow. Fucking smooth.

She giggled, and I felt myself blushing. Thank fucking God for tanned skin. She moved to sit by me, shifting up along the bench until we were pressed together. Screw personal space.

"So are you gonna ask me out, or not?" She inquired, a cheeky grin on her face.

Of course I had to take her out. I mean, what kind of heartless human being would I be if I turned that down? It had nothing to do with how I felt myself being drawn to those eyes. Or those legs.

We went to Bel-Aire Diner together that night. God knows why I agreed to even step foot in there (I was watching my weight), but she insisted, claiming that the milkshakes were 'better than rainbow unicorns' and that the fries were out of this world. So I obliged, playing the part of the chivalrous date, opening the door for her (even after she slapped my ass and called me a pussy) and pulling her chair out for her. We split a plate of curly fries and a chocolate chip milkshake (she picked; I would never even have contemplated ordering one.)

"I'm Brittany Susan Pierce. Not Britney Spears. I'm way hotter," she deadpanned, wrapping her heart-shaped lips around the straw of the milkshake. I fought to hide my blush.

"Santana. Santana Lopez," I mumbled.

"Oh." She replied simply. I raised my eyebrows.

"What? What did I do wrong?"

She snorted, shaking her head in answer to my question.

"Nothing," she replied, her slender fingers ripping packet after packet of ketchup open. It was kind of endearing.

"So what are you majoring in?" I asked, smiling slightly and shuddering as she pushed the glass towards me. My movements elicited a delighted giggle from her, and my smile widened ever so slightly.

"Dance Repertory."

"What's repertory?" I wondered out loud.

_"__Nothing sexual, Preppie."_

I flushed, biting my lip. Why the hell was I putting up with this? Usually, by now, I'd be leaving the apartment of whoever the lucky girl of the night was.

_"__Hey, don't you know who I am?!"_ I was rattled, to say the least.

"Yeah," she replied, her tone uninterested but her eyes twinkling, filled with mirth. "You own Lopez hall."

I narrowed my eyes at her playfully.

"Nope, that's not me. My great-grandfather donated it to the school."

She snorted for the umpteenth time of the night.

"So that his great-granddaughter would be able to get in?" She said with a smirk, the playful laughter in her eyes betraying her mocking tone.

"Britt." The nickname rolled off my tongue easily. I tried again.

"_Brittany_," I took care in enunciating my word. She laughed, leaning forwards. "If you're so convinced that I'm a loser, then why did you bulldoze me into taking you out?"

_She looked me straight in the eyes and smiled._

_"__I like your body," _She answered with a chuckle, not missing the way that my tongue poked out between my lips at those words.

I walked her back to campus that night. As we got to the door of her dorm, she turned to smile at me. I didn't smile back.

"Listen you airheaded bitch, Friday night is the NYU vs Harvard dodgeball game."

She leaned in and pressed her hot mouth to my ear, her breath tickling the rim of my shell. "And why would I care about that?" she whispered.

I swallowed audibly.

"I want you to come with me. Because I'm playing."

She pulled away, and looked me in the eyes. There was a brief silence.

_"__For which side?"_

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><p><strong>Thoughts? Please rate and review.<strong>


	2. II

**_A/N: I know nothing about dodgeball (except that I am absolutely rubbish at it), American University or America in general, if I'm being completely honest. All mistakes are mine. I will try to update at least once a week; I had this already typed up so I thought I might as well upload it now!_**

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><p><em>II<em>

**Santana Lopez**

**Lima, Ohio**

**Age: 20**

**Major: Social Studies**

**Career Aim: Law**

**Senior**

**5'5"**

**Position: Thrower**

By now, I was sure that Brittany had read my bio in the program. I had made sure that she'd gotten one, sweet-talking Stubbles (the water guy) into wheeling his ugly ass over to her and thrusting one into her hands. She'd smiled at him then, resulting in a menacing scowl thrown his way by yours truly.

"For God's sake Lopez, is this your first date or something?" teased a horrifically nasal voice. I scowled.

"Because you get so much yourself, right Preggers? Go back to being blown off by Berry," I snarked. Fabray, one of the snipers on the team, glared right back, placing her hands on her hips.

"Fuck off," she hissed, glancing sideways to make sure that the midget in question wasn't in hearing range. "She's back with Finn, anyway."

Ignoring her, (I wasn't in the mood for yet another one of her in-the-closet-lesbian-dramas) I warmed up on the court, not bothering to wave at Brittany (I mean, how lame would that be? I had at least a smidge of pride), or even look her way. _And yet I think she thought I was glancing at her._ But I didn't. A lot. I didn't stare at her at all.

By the end of the first half, I was exhausted. It was 3 men, I mean women, down on each side, and it seemed to me as if no one else on my team was even bothering to fucking try. So I played dirtier, aiming anywhere, and at anyone that I could, even elbowing one of my team out of the way on one occasion. I just had to fucking win, especially with her sitting in the stands, especially after fucking inviting her here to watch me play. At least she'd have a good view of my ass, even if we didn't win, I reasoned to myself. I didn't wear gym shorts because they're comfortable, after all.

Thwack. I'd seen that Asian chick, Chang or Corazon, or whatever the fuck her name was (one of Harvard's snipers) sneaking towards me, ball in hand. So I lobbed mine at her face. I mean, it's not my fault she was vertically challenged. Nor was it my fault that her hand had gotten in the fucking way and bounced onto her nose, resulting in a strangely satisfying crunching sound. How I love the sound of defeat.

A whistle blew.

"You—two minutes on the bench!"

I looked up. He pointed to me, and I angrily shook my head. Me? What the fuck had I done?

"Come on ref, I didn't fucking do anything!"

He merely shook is head, and pointed towards the bench. I swore, and sulkily shuffled to the side of the court, making sure to flip both him, and Fabray, who was smirking infuriatingly, off.

_"__Why are you sitting here when all your friends are out playing?"_

The voice was Brittany's. I huffed, and ignored her, keeping my eye on the game instead.

"Buddy up! Fucking hell Motta, smash them! No, not like that Berry, you useless piece of garbage!" I yelled, my hair sticking to my face. She chuckled.

_"__What did you do wrong?"_

I turned and answered her. I mean, it would only have been rude to ignore my date like that.

_"__I tried too hard."_ And I went back to watching my team's abysmal efforts at throwing a ball.

"Is that such a bad thing?"

I shot a glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She smirked playfully at me.

"Britt, come on. I'm trying to concentrate for God's sake!"

"On what?"

"On how I'm going to wreck that bitch Jones! Now just fuck off, wouldja?" Even in my furious state, I couldn't help mumbling a quiet apology to her. After all, she hadn't done anything wrong.

Whether she heard or not, I didn't care, and seemingly, neither did she, instead continuing to badger me.

"Are you a dirty player?" She winked playfully at me, and I felt myself growing frustrated again. "Would you ever 'wreck' me?"

I snapped. _"I will right now if you don't shut up."_ She scoffed.

_"__I'm leaving now. Goodbye." _

By the time I turned around, she was gone. As I stood up to see whether she had gone back to her seat or not, I was informed that my two minutes were up. I ran onto the court.

The crowd welcomed my return, and I reciprocated their sentiments with my signature cocky smirk. Wherever she was hiding, Brittany would hear the big enthusiasm for my presence. So who cares where she is.

_Where is she?_

Next thing I knew, I was met with a ball only a few inches from my face. I ducked, just in time, the ball barely skimming over my ponytail. A ball rolled by my feet, and I reached to get it—but slipped. I was on my ass, the crowd was booing and I was flushing red.

What would Brittany think? That I was some lame date that had acted like a big shot when actually I couldn't even fucking pick up a ball without falling? I wasn't having that.

I jumped up, grabbed the ball and threw it at the opposing team, smirking when it impacted with a satisfying 'thwack'. By some stroke of luck, the ball ricocheted off Jones and onto Chang, meaning there was only Rose left. Victory was so fucking close, I could almost taste it.

"Go San go! Knock their heads off!"

I heard Brittany's scream (although I blushed at her nickname for me, that wasn't cool in any way or form) above the crowd. It was beautifully violent. Fuelled by her approval, I signalled for a buddy up, and after a short countdown, we flung the remaining balls, with as much force as we could muster, at the girl.

_In an instant, we were hugging and kissing. _Me and Fabray and Berry and all the other girls. Hugging and kissing, and screaming. I felt myself being lifted up onto their shoulders, and I searched through the crowd of screaming fans for Brittany. She caught my eye, and gave me a sinfully adorable grin, mouthing "well done!" to me. I smiled back, suddenly bashful.

I stood under the spray of the locker room showers, exhaling in pleasure as the hot water hit my sore muscles. Finally, I was able to bask in my victory and just relax, thinking about both nothing, and everything.

"Lopez?" It was Motta, catcher for our team, and also one of the fucking weirdest people I had ever met. I swear to god, once she called me 'Mom'. Weird, or what? Anyway, she was normally quite nice, excluding her 'self-diagnosed Asperger's', so I humoured her.

"Yes, Motta?" There was a silence.

"Oh. Nothing. I just wanted to say hi, and ask what you were doing tonight. I mean, it's cause you're kind of a bitch, so I didn't think you'd have any friends to celebrate with. Sorry, Asperger's."

I stifled a snort. What planet was she from again?

"Actually, I have a date. Her name's—" Fuck, Brittany! I'd completely forgotten about her. And she was probably waiting for me out in the cold, while I was wasting time talking to a lunatic. Would she even still be there?

Hurriedly, I got out of the shower, not even bothering to wrap the towel around myself properly, and with record speed, got dressed and grabbed my bag, walking outside. The cold hair hit me; it was fucking freezing, literally, I knew that my nipples were literally about to drop off. So much for thermal bras.

I breathed a sigh of relief—Brittany was standing there, her nose pink in the crisp air, despite the various scarves that were swaddling her neck.

"About time Preppie, I was freezing out here!" Her eyes twinkled.

_Was I glad to see her!_

"Britt!"

Without a second thought, I reached up and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She narrowed her eyes.

_"__Did I say you could?"_

_"__What?"_

_"__Did I say you could kiss me?"_

_"__Sorry. I was carried away."_

She giggled.

_"__I wasn't."_

Closing my eyes, I grabbed her by the waist and tugged her towards me, pressing my mouth against hers in a searing kiss. Her lips were cold against mine, and I felt her lips curve into a smile, before I pulled away.

"What was that?" She raised an eyebrow playfully.

I rolled my eyes, and leaned in, kissing her again, for longer this time. When we finally stopped kissing, the tips of her ears were pink, and she was smiling like a goofball.

_"__I don't like it."_

_"__What?"_

_"__The fact that I like it."_

As we walked back to her campus, she held onto my pinky tightly with her own. God knows how stupid we looked, two girls walking with their pinkies linked and their lips swollen from stolen kisses. At the doorstep of her halls, she moved to kiss me and I turned my cheek.

"Listen, Britt. I might not call you for a few months."

Silence.

_Finally, she asked, "Why?"_

I smirked.

_"__Then again, I may call you as soon as I get to my room." _Touché.

I turned, and with a flirty wink, began to make my way home.

"Asshole," I heard her giggle.

I pivoted again, and grinned.

"See Britt, you can dish it, but you can't take it!"

She laughed, and waved me off, disappearing into her room.

My roommate, Berry, was performing yet another rendition of Don't Rain On My Parade with her 'Glee club' friends as I entered the room. I rolled my eyes good-naturedly.

"Hello, ladies and gays."

Rachel (Berry) glared at me from where she was singing. I looked to my left, and saw Hummel frantically motioning for me to shut up—it wouldn't do to interrupt a Berry solo. I rolled my eyes a second time, and headed straight to the fridge, grabbing a beer.

Motta, (why the fuck was she everywhere?!) looked up and waved.

"Lopez! How was your date?"

Twelve pairs of eyes snapped up. Even Berry forgot to complain about her lack of applause. I sighed—preparing myself for the interrogation.

"Date? What date? Why didn't I hear about this?!" That was Fabray.

An unnaturally feminine voice spoke up. "Didn't you hear? She's seeing Brittany, you know, Mike's friend?"

I glared at Kurt and he shut up immediately.

Berry opened her mouth, probably to say something obnoxious and self-centered per usual, but promptly shut it, following a dig in the ribs from Fabray.

Ignoring these imbeciles, I headed to my room, shutting the door behind me and dialled Brittany's number, lying back on the bed.

She picked up after the first ring.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, Britt…"

"What is it?"

A pause.

"Britt…what would you say if I told you…"

_She waited. _I continued, feeling strangely content.

_"__I think…I'm in love with you."_

Silence.

She answered very softly.

_"__I would say…you were full of shit."_

She hung up.

_I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised._

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><p><strong>Yesno? I love reviews. Thank you to all those that left me lovely reviews (': much love xo**


	3. III

**Sorry, this is uploaded later than I planned. Life got in the way. All mistakes are mine. Enjoy!**

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><p><em>III<em>

_I got hurt in the Cornell game._

Honestly, it was my own fault. In a moment of anger, I couldn't help but refer to Zizes, one of their throwers, as 'sexless Peter Griffin' a little too loudly. Not that it would bother me usually, I have razor blades all up in my hair, and plenty of Lima Heights hospitality to dish around. But this girl was fucking huge, 5'10" and 350 lbs at least. It goes without saying that even with my fair few retaliating slaps, she literally crushed me. To add to this humiliating experience, I was the one who got the penalty. _And not a common one either, five minutes for fighting._ I could see my Coach, Sylvester, practically tearing her hair out as I climbed into the box, and barking one of her ridiculous insults at me.

Berry called a half time, and Fabray made her way over to me quickly, medical kit in hand.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Lopez," she muttered repeatedly, her cold fingers working over my face with a cleansing pad. It was only then that I realised the left half of my face was covered in blood and bruises. It hurt like hell, but I wasn't going to show it.

When she was finally done, Fabray opened a tube of Dettol, and with fumbling fingers, began to smear it over my face. Stinging tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I bit them back. Santana Lopez never cries.

The whistle was blown, and my team defeatedly made their way back onto the court. There was no point in even trying, and I didn't even bother watching the remainder of the game, instead staring blankly at my shoes. Motta was hit. Tanner was hit. Berry, Fabray, and finally Wilde. We'd lost the game, the championship, and most importantly our winning reputation. The Cornell fans whooped and bellowed from across the court. I hung my head in shame.

By now, the fans for both sides had forgotten my existence; NYU's side stony and silent, Cornell's screaming and cheering. Only one spectator (if you could even call her that, she'd sat throughout the entire game with an indifferent expression on her face) still had her eyes on the penalty box. I looked up, and swore under my breath. Sitting directly opposite me, was mi Abuela, Alma Lopez.

Across the court, the old witch observed in expressionless silence, not even moving to blink. I rolled my eyes. What was she thinking? That I was the family failure, the black sheep, the sole person who had let down my school? Or words to that effect? Or maybe even nothing at all. Of course, who could even tell what she was thinking? Alma Lopez was a walking, surprisingly often talking (but only insults, until the age of five I was convinced that my name was garbage face), Pico de Orizaba.

Fabray stalked past me with barely a glance in my direction. Her face was flushed red, and were those tears in her eyes? She had never lost a game in her life, let alone something as important as this one. And this was our last game of the season. Which we lost horrendously.

After the game, X-rays determined that there were no broken bones, although I was going to have a bruised cheekbone and black eye for the next few days, and 4 stitches were sewn into my cheek. Thank god for foundation. As she was working on my face, Pillsbury, the self-appointed guidance counsellor and medical assistant gave me a long, boring lecture on my fighting. I ignored her completely, only speaking to thank her at the end. Then I left, leaving her to see to Berry, who was insisting that her knee was broken. Fucking hypochondriac.

Back at the locker room, no one was inside. I guessed they had already left, not wanting to even see me, let alone speak to me. I scoffed, and after taking a brief shower, gathered my bag and walked outside. There she was, looking as disapproving as ever, a sour expression on her face. I took a deep breath, and with the fakest smile I could muster, moved towards her.

"Hola, Abuela."

She nodded in response. "Santana."

I felt my blood boil. She wasn't even going to acknowledge me properly?! This was a blatant reminder about why I never came home, never wrote and barely called.

She scrutinized me.

"You've put on weight, Santana." I glared, ready to spit out some of my best insults. As if sensing my almost-explosion, she put her hand on my arm, and with a vice-like grip, pulled me to walk with her. I sighed. It looked like it was going to be a long evening.

_At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of nonconversations, all of which commence with 'How've you been?' and conclude with 'Anything I can do?'_

"How've you been, Santana?"

"Fine."

"How's your face?"

"Fine."

It was hurting like hell.

"And how's school going?" By that she meant, 'are you top of the class?' There was no way that she cared whether I was enjoying it, or making friends, or even doing well.

I made a non-committed noise. She frowned.

"And do you have a boyfriend yet? You won't stay young forever."

I choked.

"N-no," I spluttered, going red in the face. She hmphed.

"Santana, I told you before; your rude behaviour is going to have to change if you want to settle down and have children. Men don't just go for a pretty face you know."

I hissed under my breath. "Too bad this pretty face doesn't go for men." She glared, oblivious to what I had said, but knowing full well that I was making a smart ass comment.

_At this point, I decided to study the menu._

As the main course was served, the old bruja launched into another bout of smug preaching, this

one, if I recall-and I try not to- concerning victories and defeats. She noted that we had lost the title

(very sharp of you, Abuela), but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winning but the

playing. What she really meant, was that we had done fucking terribly, but was taking a kind of sick pleasure in patronising me. I ignored her, and continued with my meal.

"Santana!" Her sharp eyes were flashing. I must have forgotten to pretend to listen, or something.

I swallowed my mouthful, and answered as expressionlessly as I could. "Si?"

"Tell me, mija," the 'mija' being sarcastic, "Why did you stop courting that nice Evans boy?" I gave a disgusted snort, provoking a disapproving glare from her. Who the hell even said courting anymore? You couldn't even call what Trouts McChapstick and I had, a 'thing'.

"I'm not into wet, drippy boys with a revolting hairstyle and a slimy, oversized cakehole." That shut her up.

_At about eleven-thirty, I walked her to her car. _

"Anything I can do, Santana?"

"No, Abuela. Good night, Abuela."

_And she drove off._

I went back to the motel to phone Brittany.

It was the only good aspect of the whole evening. I told her all about the fight (obviously exaggerating most of the factors, which I'm sure she noticed, but didn't seem to mind about) and I could tell she enjoyed it. I mean, I'm a pretty hot aggressive lady.

"Did you at least bitch-slap the girl that hit you?" she asked.

_"Yeah. Totally. I creamed her."_

I could feel her pout through the receiver.

"Saaaaaan," she whined.

I rolled my eyes playfully.

"C'mon Britt. It's not dodgeball without me kicking the crap out of someone."

She giggled.

"More like you got beaten the crap out of by her. I know you San. You don't have to try to impress me." Her voice was soft, and I hated the fact that she could see right through me.

I stayed silent, content with listening to the rhythm of her breathing on the other end of the line.

She spoke again.

_"I wish I coulda seen it. Maybe you'll beat up somebody in the Yale game, huh?" _

_"Yeah." _

_I smiled. How she loved the simple things in life._

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><p><strong>Please rate and review :) xoxo<strong>


	4. IV

**_A/N: Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Should I continue this?_**

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><p><em>IV<em>

_"__Brittany's on the downstairs phone."_

The girl at the desk addressed me without even looking up, and I admit, for a moment, I was somewhat bemused. I had barely managed an "excuse me" before she butted in—not knowing who I was, or whether I was even looking for someone. I quickly concluded that this was an ego booster—either she had read about me in Collife; the sad little magazine that the nerd of college life had come up with, or, more importantly, Brittany had told her about me, and she knew that we were dating. I hoped it was the latter.

"Thanks," I said. "I'll just wait here then."

She nodded, and continued to flick through her magazine. I glanced at the cover, and gave a small shudder of disdain. Cosmo.

A few minutes past, and I grew impatient. Checking the time on my phone for the third time in the past minute, I drummed my fingers on the desk and spoke.

"She off the phone yet?"

The girl glanced up briefly, before checking her switchboard. "Nope."

I huffed.

Who the hell was she talking to, that was more important than her date? Hell, I knew that she was friendly and whatever, but this was really the limit. I knew it couldn't be that Chang guy, or whatever his name was—I mean, he was obviously attractive and his abs made even my lady parts tingle a little, but the guy had a girlfriend. And Sam, with his disturbingly large lips, her ex boyfriend, had no game whatsoever. Despite all that, I was still seriously worried.

"Where's the phone booth?"

She pointed round the corner, to the left, and I set off immediately, heels tapping against the polished floor of the corridor. From afar, I could see Brittany on the phone—her fingers twirling and twirling the cord as she chattered. I gave an involuntary smile, and moved towards her, hoping she would spot me and slam the phone down, before jumping into my arms. No such luck.

_As I approached, I could hear fragments of her conversation._ The words made my blood boil.

"Yeah, absolutely. Aw, I miss you too…of course! Okay. I love you too…bye honey."

I stopped walking. Who was she talking to? Clearly, I was being shot down by Brittany Susan Pierce, for someone she was currently (ew) blowing kisses to down the phone.

I'd only been away from her for 48 hours, and in the mean time some smarmy git had crawled his way into her bed (it had to be that!).

_As she was hanging up, she saw me, and without so much as blushing, she smiled and waved me a kiss. How could she be so two faced?_

As I turned to go, she caught me by the sleeve and kissed me lightly on my unhurt cheek. I blushed despite myself.

"Hey—you look awful, San."

I glared.

"I'm injured, Brittany."

If the use of her full name, and my cold tone had confused her, she didn't show it.

"Does the other girl look worse?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah. They always look worse."

I said that in an as intimidating manner as I could, trying to give off the impression that I was badass as hell, and would beat the crap out of anyone who tried to get between us. She chuckled lightly, and tugged on my sleeve affectionately, seemingly oblivious.

When we were outside, and had made our way down the street, about to step into my apartment, I took in a deep breath, and asked the question as casually as I could.

"Hey, Brittany…?"

"Yeah?"

I swallowed, afraid to hear the answer.

"Who were you on the phone to?"

She answered matter-of-factly as she walked through the door.

"My mom."

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><p><em>I wasn't about to believe a story like that.<em>

"You call your mom honey?!"

She gave an amused snort.

"Yes. Why, what's wrong with that?"

Brittany had once told me that she'd been raised by her parents, a couple of hippies, in California. When I'd asked her what they did for a living, she'd merely pulled a confused face, and mumbled something about plants. I hadn't asked again.

She repeated herself. "What's wrong with that?"

_I'd been so out of it, I hadn't heard her question._

"Well…uh…" I was stumped.

She giggled. "What do you call your…Abuela?"

I grimaced.

"Vieja bruja fea. Ugly old witch."

"To her face?" she asked.

"I never see her face."

"She wears a mask?"

I nodded.

"You could say so. In a way."

She shook her head. "Come on—she must be proud as hell of you."

I looked at her in disbelief. Guess she didn't know the extent of my loathing for my Abuela.

"No," I answered simply.

Her face fell, and she looked at me with an expression that made me want to die on the spot—pity. She opened her mouth, and then closed it, at a loss for what to say. I hated it.

"Don't," I snapped.

She sighed quietly. "Don't what, Santana?" There was an edge to her voice.

Don't look at me like that. Don't insult me with your pity.

I bit my tongue.

"Nothing."

Swiftly, she stepped forwards and kissed me on my forehead, pulling me into an embrace. I let her.

"Listen, San, she loves you," she whispered against my forehead. I gave a shuddered sigh.

"She has a weird way of showing it."

Brittany's forehead creased, and there was silence for a few moments.

"This is ridiculous, San." Her voice cracked, and I hated myself for it.

"Hey," I cooed. "There's nothing you can do about it."

She nodded, and pressed her face firmly into my hair.

I pulled her closer.

"Can we just forget about it?"

She lifted her head, and for a moment I saw a sparkle in her eyes.

"Thank God you're all hung up over your Abuela. It means you're not perfect." Her smile was back.

"Hey, I'm not—" I gave up. "Oh, you mean _you_ are?"

_"__Hell no preppie. If I was, would I be going out with you?"_

Touché.


End file.
